4 December 1945
Shakhtyorsk Air Base, Sakhalin Oblast, USSR
Instead of a cold gun barrel against his neck Ingram felt the tape being carefully peeled from his mouth. His eyes snapped open. It was a U.S. Marine. It was . . . “Ah-Amaya,” Ingram stammered. He gasped and sucked in large breaths of cool, wonderful air.
“You okay, Commander?” Amaya asked, shedding his Russian overcoat. He threw off the fur cap and plopped on the helmet that had been hanging from his web belt, his eyes all the while sweeping the room.
“Get me out of this Amaya.”
“Yes, sir.” Amaya whipped out his bayonet and easily cut through the telephone cord.
Ingram rubbed his wrists. “How did you manage this?” He stood, feeling wobbly.
Amaya grabbed Ingram’s elbow to steady him. “They’re gone. They loaded our gear in the command car and had the gunny march the boys down the runway. They turned right and headed for the Rooskie pier.”
Circulation returned. Ingram’s wrists and ankles glowed and itched with new life. “Thanks, Amaya,” he pushed away and stood on his own.
“That’s not all.”
“What?”
“I heard the Russian officer tell the gunny that they’ll give us a ride back to the Maxwell and ‘poof,’ we’ll be gone.”
“That sounds encouraging. But tell me what made you decide to come after me?”
“After they marched off the squad, the remaining Rooskies fell in and headed back.”
“How many?”
“Umm, twenty, maybe thirty guys. But the command car didn’t leave right away. It just sat there with the engine idling.”
“I wonder why?”
“I’m not sure. But up in the tower, I got worried. I saw those Rooskies take you to the bunker. You walked in, but you didn’t come out.”
“Can you see the bunker from up there?”
“Yes, sir. Not the entrance, but the top of the bunker and some trenches around it. So I’m thinking about all this when their top kick decides to send someone back to check the tower. They were marching away when this guy climbs up the ladder right to the top. You should have seen his eyes when he saw me. Big as saucers. So I bopped him on the head. Not a sound. Then I put on his stuff and climbed on down. I just marched past the two guys in the command car and into the brush.”
“What made you come here?”
“Me? Like I said, you weren’t with those Russians when they came back. And later, that civilian, Mr. Blinde—he’s workin’ for the Commies, right?”
“That’s right.”
“So Mr. Blinde and this other civilian came back carrying a crate. And right behind them is a Russian officer. He looked important.”
“Skipper of that Russian cruiser.”
“So that’s it. This other guy with Mr. Blinde was dopey looking. He was wearing a black leather jacket and some sort of mobster hat; kind of like Al Capone. So they loaded the crate on the command car and took off. Hell, I didn’t know what to do. But I kept thinking about you and decided to come here and . . .” he waved at the corpse.
On the trip up from Atsugi, Ingram had watched Private Amaya laughing and cutting up with the others. He was an eighteen-year-old from New York with sandy hair who spoke with a Brooklyn accent and had a lopsided grin. He looked as if he had just started shaving. And now, in an instant, Amaya had become a man, looking every inch a Marine. His face was at once very serious and yet relaxed, confident but vigilant. His eyes darted everywhere, the pistol still poised.
“I owe you my life, Amaya. Thank you,” said Ingram.
“Well, I suppose it’s my job, sir.”
Ingram’s knees still felt shaky, and he knew it wasn’t from being tied up. Time to put on a good face. “And well done too. Here, give me a moment.” Ingram stooped, picked up the PPK, and stuffed it into his belt at the small of his back, Oleg style. Then he checked Oleg’s pockets, finding an extra clip for the pistol. There was an ID kit inside Oleg’s jacket. A strange-looking metal badge and a wallet—very thin, no rubles, just a crinkled photo of an elderly couple. Then he picked up his own belongings that Oleg had cast aside. Standing, he said, “Okay.”
“How are we going to do this, Commander?”
“I’m working on it.” Ingram hadn’t the foggiest idea.
It was late afternoon by the time they finished creeping the length of the runway. They turned north for the pier and . . . Amaya raised a finger to his lips. “Shhh.”
They stopped. It was one of the 105-mm gun emplacements. Two of the crew sat around a small bonfire warming their hands. Another was drawing a canvas cover over the barrel. Three more were loading gear on a truck while a lone soldier walked the perimeter with a rifle over his shoulder, occasionally stamping his feet.
Ingram whispered. “Packing up?”
“Looks like it.”
Silently, they eased around the gun emplacement, giving it a wide berth.
Someone shouted. An engine started nearby. Then another. Then many. The ground shook with vehicles on the move. Ingram muttered, “What are these guys doing?”
More vehicles rumbled nearby. They came to a break in the brush and saw a muddy road. As they crouched in the underbrush two T-34 tanks, four M-16s, and four trucks swept by, their gears clanking as wheels and treads churned through the mud. Ingram looked at Amaya, who shrugged. The convoy petered out, and they waited for a moment making sure the road was clear.
“Now.” Ingram said. They dashed across just as another tank clanked around a bend and snarled past. He looked back. The tank hadn’t stopped. Nor did any of the ten trucks that sloshed by afterward.
With stealth no longer necessary, Ingram and Amaya made their way through tall grass and up to the top of a berm. Below them lay the pier. It extended about three hundred feet into the Sea of Japan, where twelve knots of wind whipped up waves, a few topped with whitecaps. To their right, the Admiral Volshkov lay a thousand yards off the beach. To their left, the Maxwell’s graceful lines stood out as she swung at anchor, her battle ensign now stowed and her flag flying at the fantail. A low gray shape bobbed around her bow and swept down her starboard side—the Maxwell’s motor whaleboat patrolling around the destroyer in slow, lazy circles. Ingram muttered, “What I wouldn’t give for Boland’s walkie-talkie.”
Amaya glanced at Ingram as if to say, “Wishful thinking.”
A large, slab-sided logging barge was moored near the far end of the pier. Groups of ragged soldiers stood or sat on the barge. Ingram soon realized they were Japanese soldiers, the remainder of the garrison originally promised to the Americans. But the Japanese were heavily guarded by Soviet troops on the pier who stood fast and kept them covered with their PPSh submachine guns.
Closer in, two dark gray 36-foot personnel boats bobbed alongside the pier. Red flags emblazoned in gold with the Soviet star, hammer, and sickle drooped from tall staffs mounted on their transoms. Soldiers moved about on the pier, loading boxes and gear on the boats.
“Sir?”
“Our ticket home.” He nodded toward the squad of Marines standing on the opposite side of the pier, their rifles and equipment stacked before them. They were surrounded by twenty or so Russian guards poised with submachine guns. Sergeant Boland walked inside the perimeter, looking his tormentors up and down as if he were reviewing them at the Marine barrack at Eighth and I Streets in Washington, D.C.
“Gunny,” rasped Amaya.
“Yep.”
Ingram started to rise when something caught his eye. Colin Blinde and Gennady Kulibin were settling onto white cushions in the stern of the nearest boat. Borzakov stood amidships watching two sailors lash the crate atop the engine cover. Satisfied, Borzakov waved to Blinde and Kulibin, braced a foot on a gunwale, and deftly stepped back onto the pier. He stood stiffly as sailors cast off the boat’s lines. Kulibin and Blinde were deep in conversation and barely noticed Borzakov as the boat backed away from the pier and then lunged forward, leaving a cloud of greasy blue diesel smoke. The NKVD man paced up and down on the pier, head hidden under his slouch hat, hands jammed in his jacket pockets.
Ingram watched the boat head out into the chop. One of the finest and most promising young minds in the United States was on board that craft. Colin Blinde had been given the advantages of a respected family, a superior education, and entrée into society at the highest levels. Indeed, he had the confidence of his government. Squandered Blinde family riches of the past had reached forward and twisted this young man and shrouded from him the ability to distinguish between right and wrong. He was incapable of caring or understanding the epic proportions of what he had done: he had betrayed his country. It was abject greed in the name of resuming his family’s fortune and restoring the Blinde name to whatever former glory it had enjoyed . . . and buying another house in the Hamptons.
Ingram thought of simple, likable Walter Hodges and what Colin Blinde had done to him; and to Sally and their child. And others as well—Boring for certain, and he didn’t know how many others. The blond young man bobbing up and down in those waves, heading toward the Admiral Volshkov, exemplified what can go wrong in a civilization at its apex, even the United States, a proud nation at the top of its game.
The din of truck and tank engines grew. The air was filled diesel smoke and occasional shouts. “These guys are on the move,” said Amaya.
“Looks like it. You ready?”
“I’m with you, sir.”
They stood. “Okay. Just remember to stay behind cover as long as possible. We don’t want to give these people too much time to think.”
They found a path and walked down the hill into what looked like a vehicle park. The group appeared to be breaking up as a command car peeled away leading six trucks, two M-16s, and three tanks onto the road toward the mountains.
They came upon a lone tank, a T-34, its unmuffled engine rumbling loudly. Ingram nearly stumbled into a man in dark, grease-stained overalls and leather helmet. The tanker wiped his hands with an oil-stained rag. “Oops,” Ingram sputtered.
“Da?” The man asked. “Otkuda ty prishyol?” (Where did you come from?)
“Spasibo,” Ingram tried.
The man shouted. “Stoi tam!” (Wait right there!)
Ingram turned, smiled, spread his hands, and said, “Sorry, we’re in a hurry.” To Amaya, “Come on.”
They dashed into the park, racing between trucks and an occasional Jeep. Ducking around a command car, they walked onto the pier toward Boland and his squad. Ingram heard angry shouts behind him.
Russians walked past. One or two stopped, astonished that two Americans strolled nonchalantly among them. The shouting from behind grew closer.
The tanker.
“Keep walking,” said Ingram, bumping into a Russian rating.
“Bet on that, sir.”
Twenty yards.
Boland’s ears picked up the commotion. Quickly, he took it all in as soldiers descended on Ingram and Amaya from three different directions. He roared at his squad, “All right, you sissies, fall in.”
They looked at him, bewildered.
“Fall in!”
A corporal still stood motionless, his hands on his hips.
Boland growled, “That means now, pissant, on the double. Two ranks, dressrihyet—hess.” Then, “Dee-tail, ten-hut!”
The Marines snapped to attention.
“For-arrrrd—mark time—harch!”
Boland screeched out the cadence, completely smashing his words, “Lehp . . . lehp . . . lehpha-right, lehp.”
Getting the idea, the Marines marched in place, stomping their feet loudly, kicking up dust.
The Russians looked from the squad to the commotion around the two Americans and back to the squad. It was enough. Ten seconds later Ingram and Amaya popped through the crowd. Amaya took a position in the second rank, Ingram before the squad.
Boland growled, “Houn-off!”
In unison, the Marines shouted, “One! Two! Three! Four! One! Two! Three! Four!”
Russians pressed in on all sides watching Boland’s parade. The tanker burst through the crowd and reached for Ingram.
“Nyet, nazad!” (No, stand back!)
At once, the tanker stopped and took a pace back.
Captain Third Rank Eduard Dezhnev walked through the gathered Russians and stood before Ingram. Quietly, he said, “That’s enough, Todd.”
Ingram caught Boland’s eye and drew a finger across his throat.
Boland growled, “Deeee-tail, halt!” Then, “Par-haaaaade-hest!”
Ingram said to Dezhnev, “Do you wish to inspect my men?”
Dezhnev moved close and said quietly, “Very funny. You have one chance here.”
“What’s that?”
“Just load your gear and get on board that boat as fast as you can. Shove off as soon as you’re ready.”
Ingram turned and called the order to Boland.
Boland dismissed the men and they turned to, loading their gear.
As they watched, Dezhnev asked, “What happened back there? Why didn’t you come out with Colin? And where’s Lepechn? Borsakov is going crazy looking for him.”
Ingram looked out into the crowd. Borzakov was speaking with a young naval officer, waving his arms.
“Oleg won’t be coming back.”
“What the hell do you mean?”
“Oleg is dead. We killed him. He was going to kill me.”
“This is nonsense.”
“Face the facts. And I hate to tell you this, but your cover is blown.”
Dezhnev turned to him. “What are you talking about?”
“Blinde and Kulibin know about you and that Toliver is your control.” Ingram was guessing at this point, but the look on Dezhnev’s face told him he had hit home.
Ingram continued, “And your boy Gennady.” He pointed to the Admiral Volshkov. “You should see what he has in mind for you.”
“Go on.”
“I can’t put this to you very delicately, but he wants to send you to this nice little resort in Moscow called, Lub . . . Lube . . .”
“Lubyanka?”
“Lubyanka. Yes, that’s it . . . if your mother doesn’t go along with what he has in mind. I’m guessing they’ll do it anyway because of your relationship with Ollie.”
Dezhnev looked down. “He has been after Anoushka for months.”
“Well, apparently he’s tired of waiting.”
“Shit.”
“Yes. Deep shit.”
Dezhnev’s shoulders sagged. “It’s . . . like . . . I’ve been trying to tell you, those are sick people out there.” He pointed to the cruiser. “I’m trying to do the right thing.”
“Well, I’m sorry to say we have someone just as sick out there with him. His name is Colin Blinde.”
Dezhnev straightened. “You too, Todd. They intend to kill you. They’re going to sink the Maxwell.”
“What the hell? How?”
“Tonight. After sunset.” Dezhnev checked his watch. “In about an hour and a half when it’s dark and there are no witnesses. Kulibin intends to fire a full spread of torpedoes at the Maxwell. That’s why they want you out there. Everything gone in one big explosion. Poof.”
“He can’t do that.”
“Oh, yes, he can. These are Soviet waters. He’ll claim it was aggravated. With all this cargo plane nonsense he can make a case. We were harassed. They fired on us last night—”
“That was an illumination round.”
Dezhnev raised a hand. “Nevertheless, they fired a shot at us. It’ll be tied up in international tribunals for years. Kulibin’s family has strong contacts at the most senior levels. He’ll get away with it.”
The audacity. Ingram refused to believe it. “This is crazy. Are you sure?”
“That flag business last night embarrassed him and made him really angry. They were abandoning this base anyway and will now finish the job by sunset.” He swept his arm at trucks grinding over a hill. “That’s about the last of them. We’ll be completely gone. Tonight is reserved for the big show with the Maxwell.”
“That truck convoy. Where are they going?”
He pointed east. “We’re sending everything over to Leonidovo on the east coast. A much better airfield with direct access to the Pacific.”
“You’re saying he really intends to do this?”
“Nobody around to testify. Nothing here by morning except empty vodka bottles.”
“Son of a bitch.”
“There’s more.”
“What could be worse?”
Dezhnev pointed to the barge. “See that?”
“Yes.”
“No, I mean look closely.”
A group of heavily armed Russians moved among the Japanese prisoners, pushing them onto the barge’s deck and fussing around their feet.
“What are they doing?” asked Ingram.
“That, my friend, is a fine example of one of the highest achievements of the Soviet Union. They are tying each prisoner to a six-hundred-foot length of anchor chain flaked on the barge. After sinking the Maxwell, they intend to connect that anchor chain to the Admiral Volshkov and pull it off the barge.”
“Drag them off the barge? Drown them?”
“Shhhhh. Keep your voice down. Yes. Isn’t that brilliant? Captain First Rank Gennady Kulibin has discovered a way to solve a troublesome logistics problem involving the difficult task of the care and feeding of Japanese prisoners of war. Now he gets rid of it in one fell swoop. He thought of it last night and received Beria’s permission this morning.”
“Who is Beria?”
“Lavrenti Beria: commissar of the NKVD. Second only to Josef Stalin.”
“These really are a bunch of sick bastards.”
“I agree. So the question remains, what can we do?”
“We?”
“I serve my country, Todd, as you have seen in the past. But I don’t serve these animals.”
“We’re in this together?”
Dezhnev lifted a corner of his mouth. “You should have believed me to begin with.” He took a step back and jammed his hands on his hips. “Any ideas?”
“Ever since you said torpedoes I’ve been thinking of something. It may work.”
“May work?”
“If it doesn’t, we’re screwed.”
